Dreaming in a drop of water

In a drop of water, dreaming of drowning,

I will dream of swimming, and swim upstream.

Awake in a bubble of air, barely breathing,

I will deeply inhale, to pass through the atmosphere.

Inspired by Shadow, a poet at One Door Away from Heaven  HERE

Tuesday Toes = Wordless Weds

doot, doot, doot, lookin out my back door......

the view from my deskwindow, outside with the hummingbirds, magpies, and occasionally a bunny



Autumnal Equinox

Straw man, harvest moon,

looking on the other shore.

Higan rituals?












OK, here is some clarification added after your first comments:  since this is a Haiku, which is Japanese, I couldn't help but reference the Autumnal Equinox ceremonies in Japan, the Higan Rituals. I just can't get over it in one day, the full moon so close to the first day of Fall, here 3 days later I can go on and on.
From internet research: JAPAN: The Spring and Autumn Equinoxes are observed as the six-day celebration: the Higan-e. It is celebrated for three days before and after each Equinox. Six days was chosen because it is based on the six perfections, giving, observance of the precepts, perseverance, effort, meditation and wisdom - needed before one goes from this shore of samsara to the further shore or nirvana. The literal meaning of Higan is 'other shore.' The ritual includes repentance of past sins and prayers for enlightenment in the next life. It also includes remembrance of the dead and visits to the family graves. It is thought that the Spring and Autumn Equinoxes, being the most temperate times of the year, are ideal moments to reflect on the meaning of life. 

 *correct me if I err* 

Losing her

Above the jogging couple a single leaf

reddened in the shadow

of the neon of summer

their faces glowed

as they lurched forward

glancing at each other as if,

by running again along a new route

they could keep

the old roads from view.



Clouds rimmed their town

with fresh mountainous pillars

dry and sparkling,

the words always there

between the days

of waiting for each breath

and knowing.



She waited

in the hospital rooms

in wallpapered halls and under crocheted throws.

She couldn’t help her mother anymore

but never said the word, goodbye.

It meant she would have to look back

and forward to recognize the road she’d chosen.


So she ran,

fresh and wet and charged

medicated by endorphines

he filled

the moments given

without knowing how to help

and kept the words coming

each hello a gift.


Every shared thought a valve

to open and liquefy the loneliness.

Fed and warmed and burning the fall

without losing their way,

they ran.


My mother's birthday contiues to be an anniversary for reflection, 2 1/2 years after her death.  No longer in the throws of mourning mixed with infatuation for the world, I can savor the memories, one at a time.  Good bye is still so final....

I am not a writer



I am alexic,

a nonscribe.

A left-brain damaged,

thick-tongued,
aphasic communicator.

A bardless

nonmuse-ical
unromantic.

Ink-poor,

a paper-pauper.

An un-handy

dim-penned

dull-whetted

nib.

-perhaps I may earn a liberal arts degree online, and then call myself a "writer".  I just participated in a phenomenal 1 & 1/2 day workshop at a community college.  Kevin Clark, a Calif. Polytech. Univ. San Luis Obispo poetry professor, bowled me over.

How many of you call yourselves "poet"?

Wordless Weds. = Tuesday Toes

"...a green which no artist could ever obtain on his palette, a green of which neither the varied tints of vegetation nor the shades of the most limpid sea could ever produce the like! If there is a green in Paradise, it cannot be but of this shade, which most surely is the true green of Hope."

-Jules Verne in his 1882 novel "Le Rayon Vert" (The Green Ray)

Colors are emerging on the last day of summer.  In the west, the brown of  the hills will soon be replaced by green, ignited like the Green Flash on the ocean at sunset .

The clock said two, but it was only one. Sunday 160

Endless twilight

the bed sat up

the man stood down

tubes flushed:

food impasse

across a sterile tabletop

lesions grew

while the clock on the wall

ate the fellow raw.


(This is a Flash Fiction poem in 160 characters, spaces included.  The challenge is hosted by Monkey Man HERE. Try it yourself, and let us both know!
I am still trying to express the struggle of facing cancer and the ravages of chemo and prolonged hospitalization many patients experience.  Pray for this 30 year old.

55 Flash Fiction Friday: "Buck Off"

Head shaking
side to side,

catching the breeze
in his mane,

bowing forward,
tossing back

whipping
the watching world.

Sidling away
into a wild wind

riderless, herdless,
wordless.

A stallion forms
as nostrils flare,

whose foot stomped
the challenge first?

Skittish
and stubborn,

read his posture,
muscle tone and gaze:

to avoid being

"bucked off".





(photo by H.G. Giese.  Friday 55 Flash Fiction is hosted by G-Man HERE . Write a short story or poem in exactly 55 words, post for Friday, and let Mr Knowitall know it.

One foot

        One foot

In front

           of

               the Other,

-

       overcoming
inertia.

-   

       Breathe in,

two-three-four

       footsteps

                harnessing

                     gravity.

-

        August glows
through

       leaves as

                ocean

                         glass.

-

       Sycamore shudders

palms

         fluttering

                    in symphony.

-

        Columned

sidewalk

        of rose trees

                       face 

                             off,

-

        heady but

scentless

       beyond

             a foot

                  away.

-

        Slingshot

around

        the obstacle

              by your side.

-

       Accellerate

in joy

       on a new

               trajectory,

-
       one foot
in front
       of the  Other.

  

55 Friday Flash; war

Ask

me to dance.

Ask me tonight,

or else.

If I ask you,

will you stay all night?

Will you ease the darkness

of my fight?

(I must fight

this one alone,

in a war I cannot

hold my own.)




You can dance.

I’m shot down.

IF a wheelchair

brings me home,


cancer’s war

won?

 
(This is a tough week for a 30 year old and his family.  Activities of daily life as a paraplegic are no longer the only options, each day of life is the option, with the third diagnosis in three months of an aggressive cancer.)